Deaken’s War

6

They had only bothered with sandwiches and coffee, served and then immediately removed by hovering stewards. In the beginning Azziz and Grearson had talked across him but now they included him in the conversation and listened to his opinions.

“Marseilles is convenient,” said the Arab.

“Paris thinks the ship has left already; we shan’t know until the port office opens in the morning,” said Grearson.

“1 thought you said you couldn’t ship direct,” said Deaken.

Grearson hesitated. “The End-User certificate was arranged through Portugal,” he said.

“The what?”

“End-User certificate,” repeated the other lawyer. “It’s the official documentation, stipulating the destination of any shipment for the benefit of the authorities.”

“How does it work for this consignment?”

“They’ve been sold to a Portuguese arms company, with the Azores given as the port of unloading. During the voyage they will be resold to one of our other companies and the ship advised at sea of a different destination.”

“And not more than one or two Portuguese officials know of the transaction?” anticipated Deaken.

“It’s a system that works,” said Azziz. He looked attentively at Deaken as if expecting criticism. The South African said nothing.

“I’m still not happy about excluding the authorities from the kidnap,” said Grearson, picking up the Polaroid photograph which lay between them and staring down at it.

“I didn’t consider there was a choice,” said Deaken.

“Nor I,” said Azziz.

“But I think we could do more,” said Deaken, pleased as first one, then a jumble of ideas occurred to him. He reached forward for the picture. “Cornflowers and daisies,” he said, indicating the vases of flowers visible on the table and sideboard.

“So what?” said Azziz.

“Underberg’s appointment with me was for eleven. He was early, by fifteen minutes. The call came from Karen at about eleven thirty… What time was the boy snatched?”

“About eleven thirty,” said Azziz.

Deaken nodded. “ ‘Just after you left,’ “ he recited. “That’s what Karen said, when she called. By the time they grabbed your son, they’d already had Karen for over an hour.”

Grearson shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

“The distance,” said Deaken. “They had to put the boy and Karen together. And Geneva is…” He paused, making a quick calculation. “… Over a hundred and fifty miles from Zurich.” He turned to Azziz. “I want a map. And compasses,” he said.

The look of annoyance from Azziz, a man who normally gave orders and never took them, was momentary. He gave the instruction to a steward.

Deaken smiled, happy with the way his mind was working at last-it had been a long time. To Grearson he said, “What’s the first thing the authorities would do, told of a kidnap like this?”

The American lawyer didn’t reply immediately. Then he said, “Seal the borders.”

“Right,” said Deaken.

The steward returned with maps and compasses from the navigation room and handed them to Azziz. The Arab passed them immediately to Deaken.

“They wouldn’t have taken any chances with the speed limit,” guessed Deaken. “That’s thirty-seven miles in the cities, sixty-two outside…” Deaken found the map and squinted over it. “Basel,” he said, looking up.

“Why?” demanded Grearson.

“A good road to the nearest crossing,” said Deaken. “Not more than five or six towns where they would have to slow. Let’s say they averaged fifty miles per hour. Zurich is fifty-three miles from Basel

…” To Azziz he said, “How long were the bodyguards unconscious?”

“They estimate an hour.”

“Which fits. Just time for them to get across the border.”

“There seems to be a lot of supposition,” protested Grearson.

“Not too much,” insisted Deaken, poring over his maps. “If Tewfik was the important one, then Karen would have been taken north. There’s a motorway from Geneva to Lausanne and then again from Bern to Zurich. It would have been an extended route, but worth it for the speed. What time was the photograph delivered at the port office?”

“Six,” said Grearson at once. “I checked. It was personally delivered, not part of the normal postal run…” Seeing the expectancy on Deaken’s face, Grearson said, “No, they couldn’t remember what the messenger looked like; there’s always a lot of activity in the office at that time of the evening. And there are frequently personal deliveries for Mr Azziz.”

Deaken went back to his maps, of northern France now. “I was specifically told what flight to catch from Geneva. The reservation had already been made when Underberg gave me the ticket,” he said. “You had to be expecting me. So you had to have the photograph already. Too long by road… too uncertain. So it must have been flown down…” He shook his head. “I don’t think they’d have risked crossing back into Switzerland. If the alarm had been raised, the photograph would have been disastrous for them…” He stabbed the compass point into the map.

“Strasbourg!” he said. “No borders to cross and a good airport… Why don’t we see if there was a flight from Strasbourg to Nice, say around five o’clock?”

Azziz nodded at once and Grearson went back to the telephone. It took only nine minutes. “KLM 382,” he said. “From Strasbourg at 1400. Landed Nice at 1655, on schedule.”

“Time even to get to Monte Carlo by public transport and avoid the risk of being remembered by a taxi driver.”

“Still supposition,” insisted Grearson. “I agree they’d have got out of Switzerland as quickly as possible, but not that they would have gone north. That’s pure guesswork.”

“Look,” said Deaken, gesturing around the room. “What do you see?”

Grearson frowned about him, irritated at not being able to answer the question.

“What?” he said.

“Flowers!” said Deaken. “Every sort of flower, a lot of them subtropical.” He picked up the photograph of Karen and Tewfik Azziz. “Cornflowers,” he said. “Cornflowers and daisies. Nothing from the south.”

“Tenuous,” said Grearson.

“Can you do better?” said Deaken.

Grearson looked away without replying.

“The timing was tight.” Deaken addressed himself directly to Azziz. “A two P.M. departure from Strasbourg would have meant last-minute boarding by one forty-five. And they would have tried to avoid that, because of the risk of anyone remembering. If it took an hour to get to Basel and maybe another fifteen minutes to cross the border, that takes us to twelve thirty.” Deaken stopped, sure of his argument. “That’s all they did. Just crossed the border and stopped almost immediately for the photograph to be taken.” He scribbled a calculation on the map edge, equating his estimated timing with distance, then setting his compass. He used Zurich as the compass point, sweeping a half circle westwards on the map. It covered Selestat to the north, Le Locle in the south, with Epinal at the westward bulge of the half circle. Deaken reversed the map for the men opposite, pushed it across the table towards them and said, “Somewhere there.”

Azziz stared downwards for several moments and then said, “You’ve made it sound convincing.”

“It’s a holiday place,” said Deaken. “A farm.”

“Why?” said the Arab.

“Look at the picture,” said Deaken. “It’s a communal room, like a lot of French farms. And the fireplace is a working one, with all the fittings for smoking. But look at the surround. It’s white, not blackened by fire or smoke. It hasn’t been used for a long time.”

“Maybe,” agreed Azziz.

“We’ve only their word that they’ll let them go,” said Deaken. “You’ve the resources. Why not inquire specifically around there. We could identify it from a brochure.”

Azziz looked at Grearson. “We’ll do it,” he decided. “Fix it through Paris in the morning.” To Deaken he said, “They’re making contact at noon?”

“That was the arrangement.”

“By then we’ll have discovered what’s happened in Marseilles. You’ll stay aboard tonight.” It wasn’t a question.

“Thank you,” said Deaken, who hadn’t considered what he was going to do. “But I haven’t got anything,” he said.

“That’s not a problem,” said Azziz.

Deaken was suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue. He looked at his watch and saw it was 3 A.M. But he didn’t think he’d sleep.

“It was an intelligent exposition,” said Azziz. He had stayed with coffee but Grearson sat with a brandy balloon cupped before him in both hands.

“Unless he’s involved, in which case it would have been simple,” said the lawyer.

“Then he’s directed us to his accomplices, which doesn’t make sense,” said the Arab. “I believe him. I think his wife has been taken. Just like Tewfik.”

“I would have expected a cash demand,” said the lawyer, sipping from his glass.

Azziz nodded. “It’s definitely a complication.”

“A clever one,” said Grearson, fingering his spectacles. “If we default on the shipment, the word will get around very quickly. We exist by reputation. And reliability.”

“I know.” said the Arab. His head was forward on his chest, a familiar attitude of concentration. It was a long time before he spoke. “We can’t afford to lose that reputation,” he said. There was another pause. “Or Tewfik.” His head came up. “I don’t want an army,” he said positively. “I want a small, compact group. But they’ve got to be the best. I don’t want a bunch of has-beens, fat on beer and boasting about the black women they raped in the Congo.”

“Green Beret or British SAS?”

“Just the best.”

“Williams was a Green Beret,” reminded Grearson.

“He was a mistake,” said the Arab. “I don’t want any more.”

“There won’t be,” promised Grearson, whose life until now had been a comparatively easy one of creating contracts with people who were always the willing buyers and who enjoyed the comforts with which Azziz surrounded himself. He didn’t want anything to change.

“We’ll use this man Deaken,” said Azziz. “And if necessary his wife-they’re our advantage; they’re expendable.”

One deck above where Azziz sat, but farther to the stern, Deaken stared around a suite only slightly smaller than the apartment he occupied in Geneva, reaching out to touch first the smooth wood of the bulkhead and then letting his hand drop to the silk covering of the bed. He supposed the word was bunk, but it wasn’t appropriate: this was a bed, big enough for two. The thought hit him like a blow.

“Oh, my darling,” he said aloud. “Poor darling. I’ll get you back. I promise I’ll get you back.”

Tewfik Azziz waited a long time, twice almost drifting off to sleep, only to jerk awake, irritated at himself for the weakness it showed. He was extremely careful, crouching for a long time near the door, tensed for sounds, waiting for the conversation and then the footsteps to cease, for the house to sleep. Even then he waited for the stir of guards placed outside. There was no movement to indicate the precaution.

He had rehearsed the walk, like everything else, so he crossed silently to the window, the wom five franc piece hot where he had held it for so long in his hand. He purposely kept the light off, so it was difficult locating by touch alone the screws which bolted the bars in place. The round edge of the coin fitted only in the centre and there was little leverage on the small disc. Azziz thrust hard down upon it to get the maximum purchase, hands quivering with the effort of making the turn. The coin twisted free, twice, sharp enough to have cut him if he hadn’t had the forethought to protect his hands with a handkerchief; his captors might have become curious about such finger cuts. Azziz bit back the groan at the effort, feeling the blood pump through his head. When the screw gave, it was an abrupt, jerking movement which threw the coin wide again. He groped out, feeling for the screw, rubbing his thumb across the head to ensure he hadn’t milled the cross-cut sufficiently for them to detect it if they made a check while he wasn’t in the room. Then he fitted the coin in yet again, having to put a thumb and forefinger either side to keep the coin in place, and slowly succeeded in unscrewing it completely. Azziz stopped, panting, his clothes glued to him with sweat. For several moments he hunched in the darkness, with the screw held tightly in the palm of his hand like the prize it was. Then, carefully, he reinserted it and tightened it, so it would be undetectable. By the time he became aware of the greyness of dawn edging in through the shutters, Azziz had succeeded in releasing six of the eight screws holding the inner bar into position across one of the windows. When he lay down, he realized his fingers were so numb he could hardly feel them.